


Still Awake?

by AphroditesTummyRolls



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Booker's POV, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Joe/Nicky from an Outside POV, M/M, Pre-Canon, but also love, excessive use of water as a metaphor, gotta love complex characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesTummyRolls/pseuds/AphroditesTummyRolls
Summary: Joe was shivering and his curls were still soaked from the mission, even after he and Nicky rejoined the group in fresh, soft clothes. His eyes were far away. At least he had more color in his cheeks. He dropped heavily into the kitchen chair while Nicky set about making dinner, his usually inhumanly steady hands trembling around his grip on the wooden spoon. He took deep, measured breaths, glancing back at the other man every once in a while. Andy sat beside him, her hand squeezing the back of his neck reassuringly, her sharp eyes studying them all closely.And Booker watched it all from over his flask. All he ever did was observe them— at least, that’s what it felt like sometimes.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova & Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Booker | Sebastien le Livre's Wife, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani & Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova & Quynh | Noriko
Comments: 49
Kudos: 322





	Still Awake?

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooooooo my imposter syndrome is pretty crippling. Like, will completely shut down and stop what I'm doing immediately when anyone (even unintentionally) makes me feel like I don't belong. This typically only applies to my academic field, and I thought that I'd gotten pretty good at managing it. 
> 
> But now it's hurting my ability to write my backstory fic, because there just isn't enough research in the world to escape my own anxiety. I feel stupid, and pathetic, and like I should just delete everything I have. 
> 
> Instead of doing that, I decided to take a quick break and just write something completely different. So, that's this. It's inspired by a beautiful piece of art by tumblr artist hachinana87. I would link it, but I can't find it! It was by the same name, and when I find it, I'll connect a link. 
> 
> So, enjoy. Please let me know if you like it haha I'm feeling fragile.

He pretended to sleep. His eyes were closed, and his muscles were stiff, tying themselves into knots where he laid in his cot between Andy’s empty bedroll and Joe and Nicky’s snuggled up bodies. Booker refused to be comfortable— he refused to rest. The day had been rough, and the fighting had left a bone deep ache inside him, even while the physical wounds had healed. 

The mission had been a mess, and they had dragged their feet into the miserable little safehouse just before sunset, covered in blood and smelling like gunsmoke. 

Nicky had a rigid set to his jaw as he guided Joe to the back room. He was shivering and his curls were still soaked from the mission, even after they rejoined the group in fresh, soft clothes. At least he had more color in his cheeks. He dropped heavily into the kitchen chair while Nicky set about making dinner, his usually inhumanly steady hands trembling around his grip on the wooden spoon. He took deep, measured breaths, glancing back at the other man every once in a while. Andy sat beside him, her hand squeezing the back of his neck reassuringly, her sharp eyes studying them all closely. 

And Booker watched it all from over his flask. All he ever did was observe them— at least, that’s what it felt like sometimes. 

It felt that way all night, until they finally went about setting up the beds. Until Nicky finally steered Joe— still looking dazed and damp— toward their corner cot with a hand on the small of his back. Until Booker had suitably pickled his liver and followed their lead. Andy had stayed, her grip around that blue mug only getting tighter as the night wore on. 

He knew she was blaming herself for what happened. After every mission like this, the boss would go down her list of failures and drink for each of them in turn. That night, she was drinking for Joe. He was sure Joe knew it, too, based on the way he’d hugged her before letting Nicky tug him away. 

_“I’m okay— we’re okay. It’s not your fault.”_ He’d whispered in soft, melodic Italian. Nicky came up beside them, squeezing her shoulder as he fixed her with his painfully earnest gaze. After all these years, Booker still found himself squirming under those luminous eyes. Something about Nicky just cut too deep— but Andy only pursed her lips and forced a smile. She looked so fond, her hands pushing through Joe’s wet curls before ushering them on their way. 

When Booker entered the makeshift bedroom, the two were curled into their usual positions. Joe was obscured by Nicky’s shoulders, nothing more than an arm wrapped around his waist and a puff of curls behind his neck, where he’d pressed his nose into the other man’s nape. There was a gun in Nicky’s hand under the pillow, he knew, and he stepped carefully and quietly. Their swords were in easy reach of Nicky’s capable hand, leaned against the wall next to the bedside table. 

After missions like these— _especially_ when it was Joe who’d been hurt— Nicky had a bit of a trigger finger. His light sleeping habits were even lighter, and the only thing that seemed to get him to sleep at all was Joe’s comforting weight at his back. They were plastered together, one shadow in the dark room, unable to tell where one ended and the other began. 

After all these years, it still hurt. 

He knew he’d see it, obviously— it had been nearly 200 years of sleeping in the proximity of the two. But he still felt the need to brace himself. His friends were beyond in love, and somehow, that always found its way onto Booker’s own list of failures. 

Booker had never considered himself predisposed to jealousy. He had a deep well of grief in his gut, full of salt water and blood, and sometimes the depths of it were overwhelming. Sometimes it overflowed and threatened to drown him from the inside out. It could be a memory— his sons’ birthdays, his anniversary, the smell of lilacs or the distinct cry of a hungry newborn— or sometimes, it was a particularly long, hard mission. 

Like tonight. 

Sleeping was a bad idea on nights like these. His dreams were full of salt and iron, gasping for air and trapped under unfathomable pressure. _Quynh._

If he let himself sleep tonight, he’d dream. And then Booker would wake everyone up— Nicky with his paranoia, Andy with her insomnia, Joe with his big heart and _need_ to know everyone was safe. And then Booker would become the reason why Andy sat alone in the dark with her mental list of failures. He’d be the reason why Nicky’s hands shook, and Joe’s eyes clouded. 

The mission was bad enough without him making problems. 

The night dragged on. Booker laid there, his mind slow and mouth dry and fuzzy from booze. He waited for the soft steps of Andy’s boots— for her to finally collapse onto her cot, so at least he knew she was _trying_ to rest. 

At first, when he heard something in the night, he thought it must’ve been her.

But it wasn’t Andy— it came from the wrong side, and was nothing like boots, even to his bleary mind. First, there was a labored sigh. Then, the soft glow of a light turned on, bathing the inside of his eyelids a dull red, and Booker opened his eyes in a squint. 

Nicky had somehow slipped out of Joe’s arms and rolled over onto his front, and the tiny bedside lamp was lit. It barely filled the space, the light as conscientious as Nicky himself was— it was just enough to read by. There was a worn old paperback on the bedside table that was now propped up on the pillow in front of him. It was open, and he was looking down on it, sure— but he wasn’t reading. 

Every few moments, a muscle in his jaw would jump. His face would turn away to look at Joe, and his shoulders would sag as if he was relieved all over again every time he saw him. 

Joe slept on his side, facing the room with his back to the wall, as if Nicky was still spooned up to his chest. His arm looked heavy where it rested across the small of the other man’s back, and something about the look of them had Booker itching to twiddle with his wedding ring. 

Nicky never turned a single page. He brushed an errant curl off of Joe’s forehead with a tender hand, and stroked over his beard at a regular interval, turning back to his unread book again and again. It twisted Booker’s heart to watch him. 

He knew it was all for a reason— he wished he _didn’t._

He knew that when things went wrong, or one of them died a particularly gruesome death, Nicky and Joe were more… affectionate. Physically closer, unsatisfied with the charged eye contact and lingering touches that they usually shared. Sometimes Nicky couldn’t sleep. Sometimes Joe slept with his ear pressed to the other man’s heart. 

Sometimes, Booker pulled an Andy and avoided the bedroom on nights like these. 

Looking at them now, he wished he had. 

Joe’s brow furrowed, eyes squeezing tighter before blinking open. He was bleary and confused, eyes adjusting to the unexpected light as he focused in on Nicky’s profile. He hummed, raspy and low, still heavy with exhaustion as he stroked his hand up Nicky’s spine before pushing his fingers into the hair falling over his forehead. 

“Babe?” He whispered into the night, “Still awake?” 

Nicky turned to look down at him, and Booker couldn’t see his face anymore. The back of his head was all he could see, but he knew his friend had fixed those steady, penetrating eyes on Joe— glassy with sleeplessness and hooded with dark smudges. He knew because of the way concern flickered over Joe’s face and creased his forehead. 

“Go back to sleep, _cuore mio.”_ Nicky whispered back, “I’m just waiting for Andy to come to bed.” 

It was a lie, and they all knew it. Nicky’s voice was weak, even as he said it, and Joe scoffed. “You’ll be waiting all night and you know it...” his eyes went soft in the orange lamplight, naked in their worry. “No lies, Nico— not to me. _Please.”_

For a long while, it seemed like the night held its breath, waiting for Nicky to respond. Time was still for just long enough that Booker wondered if he wouldn’t reply at all— only then did a long, shuddering sigh break the silence. 

_“I could’ve lost you.”_ He finally said, quietly enough that the Italian words were almost lost in the space. He reached out and cupped Joe’s jaw, as if saying it out loud could speak it into existence. Like he would disappear before his eyes unless he held his gaze right there. 

_“You didn’t. You won’t, Amore.”_ Joe replied, making a promise that they all knew was out of his hands, _“We are bound by destiny. Even if they’d taken me, I’d come back to you. No matter the place—“_

_“They drowned you.”_

He said it like it was worse than death. Like it was an omen, or some type of divine punishment. Like Nicky had personally brought it about that Joe would end up captured, shoved head first and held down under the water in that tub. 

It twisted something violent and conflicting in Booker’s heart. He itched for his flask, unable to find the words to describe the terrible feeling— all he could do was watch secretly on while Nicky sniffled and Joe’s eyes started to glitter. 

_"We are safe. It was nobody’s fault, and we’re still right here, together— that’s all we have. Yes?”_

Nicky petted at Joe’s beard with reverent fingertips, and even though Booker couldn’t see his face, he knew he was starting to lose it. His side heaved under Joe’s hand on his back, and a whimper broke into the quiet of the night. 

_“It’s everything, Yusuf.”_ He finally replied, his voice nothing but a hoarse exhale before he buried his face in Joe’s neck. _“You’re everything…”_

The noises were barely audible, but unmistakable— the soft, slick sound of kisses, the hitching breaths in the quiet night. Booker could hear his own teeth grind, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of memory and emotion that choked him. All the times that he’d had that gentle touch from a woman long dead, and the nagging knowledge that no matter _what_ he and Amelie had, they never had the time to be anything like _them._

He'd never call himself perfect-- before all the immortality shit-- Hell, he might not even call himself _good._ But he'd had never been a jealous man, before he'd lost his _everything._

Booker forced out a long, slow exhale that loosened the tightness in his chest just enough to not pass out. He steadied his heart, and opened his eyes as much as he dared. 

The kisses had stopped. The bedroom was all but completely silent, and the bedside lamp was out. The only light now came from the waning moon in the window, spilling across the floor and all the way to Joe and Nicky’s corner. They were nothing but shadows, but Booker could make them out in the blue dimness. 

Nicky had maneuvered onto his back, Joe tucked under his arm with his head pillowed on his chest. His curls were a halo of blue-tinted darkness in a half circle that began and ended over Nicky’s heart. 

Joe could wax poetic about his love’s heart for hours— _had_ waxed poetic for hours, actually, resulting in one of the top contenders for Booker’s worst hangover ever— and the way it held a _steady beat in his chest that Joe could feel guiding his every step—_

He loved to listen to Nicky’s heart. But they rarely switched it up from their usual sleeping positions. Joe only slept this way when he was particularly rattled by a hard day’s work. Only ever when the death was particularly terrible, or the mission had failed spectacularly. 

There was a slow, repetitive motion in the darkness— a shadow moved up and down, in and out of Booker’s line of sight while Nicky smoothed his hand up and down over Joe’s spine. 

“D’you still feel it, my Love?” Nicky finally whispered, “The spiral you were struggling with earlier?” 

Joe’s silhouette shook his head minutely, “No, it’s getting better… you make it better.” He sighed, turning his head to press his lips over Nicky’s heartbeat. The other man gave an answering hum. 

“Then, what’s the matter? I can feel it in you, my Yusuf…” 

The quiet hung heavily for a long moment, and Booker hung with it. He held his breath, heart clenched with the sudden wave of _love_ for his friends. The concern for Joe’s uncharacteristic silence tied knots in his gut. He waited and waited, until there was finally a small, choked sound. 

It only served to worry him more. Joe was a man of many emotions— all of them passionate, all of them articulated loudly and boldly. The one thing Booker had never seen his friend do was hold back. 

_“I miss her.”_ The quiet Italian was lost to the room, muffled at first into Nicky’s chest, _“I miss her, I miss her, Nicolò…”_ The dialect sounded old, and Booker was amazed he could understand it on even the fourth and fifth reiteration of the heartbroken phrase. 

Joe’s voice was hoarse, thick with tears, and his moonlit shape was trembling. His face was now pressed into Nicky’s chest, as if the ragged, choked off sounds could be contained by his T-shirt. Nicky’s jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and his arms were wrapped tightly around Joe’s heaving back. He cradled the back of his head and carefully manhandled him into the crook of his neck, cooing sweet nonsense and wobbly sounding _“I miss her, too.”_ and, _“I know, I know Amore mio…”_

Booker needed his flask like he had never needed anything in his life. His friends’ grief laid over the room like thick, cold iron, weighing down on his chest and pressing him down deeper into his own deep well of _missing_ people. He felt as if he was overflowing from the inside, the water rising to fill his lungs and throat as he listened to Joe’s sobs and Nicky’s wet, miserable voice. 

He swallowed hard around all the things he wanted to say, all the things he knew he couldn't say. He knew that knowing would be worse for Nicky and Joe, and Andy. 

He _knew._ Booker _knew_ just how much Quynh missed them, too. 


End file.
